


Just for you, Stevie

by marykathryn30



Series: Short Something's [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Birthday Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, Stucky Big Bang 2016, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, steve Turns 100, stucky fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 04:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15235008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marykathryn30/pseuds/marykathryn30
Summary: A series of moments from Steve Rogers' birthdays, the special ones he got to share with his best guy.





	Just for you, Stevie

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm six days late but Steve's birthday gave me a lot of feels so here it is yayyyy

Brooklyn, 1922.

“Those are for you, Steven,” Sarah whispered in her son’s good ear, adjusting him on her hip and smiling warmly as he pointed excitedly at the bursts of color in the sky.

“Never thought I’d say this,” Winifred Barnes said, wrestling with a crying James against her chest as he tried to crawl into her dress to escape the _booms_ and _pops_ coming from outside. “But you’re lucky Stevie can’t really hear too well.”

Both Sarah and Joseph both laughed, the man dropping a kiss on his son’s head, ruffling his soft blonde hair. Those big blue eyes looked up at him innocently and he scooped the toddler from his mother’s arms to spin him around the room. He gurgled and blew bubbles with his little lips, slapping tiny hands against his dad’s forearms as they spun.

The Rogers’ front door opened and George Barnes walked in, carrying a small white pastry box and laughing as James tumbled to the floor and scrambled forward to hug his leg.

“Hey there, ace,” he laughed, dragging his leg dramatically as he moved forward to set the box on the table. He scooped James up in his arms and kissed his wife’s cheek. James patted at his face with fat hands, smiling wide enough his dimples flashed adorably, cooing out a series of, “Pa, pa, pa,” to his dad.

“It’s not much,” he said sheepishly as Sarah opened the box to find a round cake with shaky _Happy Birthday, Steve!_ written in chocolate on white icing. “It’s from the bakery down by the docks.”

“George,” Sarah breathed, pulling the man into a tight hug with tears in her eyes. Between her hours getting cut at the hospital and Joseph losing his job at the factory, they’d barely afforded to make their house payments, let alone anything for their son’s fourth birthday.

“Before you make a fuss,” Winifred said, accepting a one armed hug from Joseph. “It was no trouble, and we’re more than happy to help celebrate Stevie’s birthday.”

“I’ll- I’ll make some coffee,” Sarah said, wiping at her face with shaking hands. “Joseph, would you get some plates and start serving?”

By the time the coffee was finished, the adults each had a small piece of vanilla cake with chocolate cream in the middle. Joseph set Steve on the floor next to James, the two boys immediately scooting on their bottoms to sit closer to each other, looking up excitedly as Joseph set a candle in their piece of cake and lit it.

“Make a wish, laoch beag,” Sarah said as Joseph set the cake down, the Irish nickname for little warrior rolling easily off her tongue. They all watched adoringly as Steve puffed as much air as he could into his little lungs and blew as hard as he could, the flame barely wavering. James wrinkled his brows together as Steve took another breath to blow out the candle and scooted behind his blonde friend, blowing with Steve so the candle went out without an issue. He clapped excitedly as Steve cheered.

“I did it, ma!” he cried happily, scooting closer to the cake. Sarah nodded encouragingly, her hand over her heart, eyes twinkling down at the two sweet boys on her living room floor.

James waited until Joseph had removed the candle before smearing cake over the side of Steve’s face.

Brooklyn, 1932

“Mornin’, Mrs. Rogers. Stevie up?”

“Good morning, Bucky. I don’t think he’s awake yet, but you can go back and check.”

Bucky nodded and walked into the Roger’s apartment, fiddling with the paper wrapped box in his hands. The place already smelled like sausage and potato pancakes, Steve’s usual birthday breakfast, and Bucky’s stomach rumbled.

“Ma had me bring the paper,” he said, handing Sarah the black and white print. The Rogers’ had taken refuge in a small apartment after Joseph had lost his job, and they didn’t get the paper delivered like the Barnes’ did. So Winifred always made sure to send their copy with Bucky every time he came over, which was every day. Sometimes the funnies made Steve laugh when he didn’t feel good, and that was more than enough reason for him to bring it.

“Thank you, Bucky.” Sarah kissed his head and slipped him a crispy potato pancake wrapped in a napkin. He thanked her and walked across the creaky floor to Steve’s room, knocking once before throwing the door open and heading in. The blonde was still asleep and Bucky couldn’t help but frown at the rattle in his chest as he breathed heavily. He was tangled up in his blankets, only a tuft on cornsilk hair peeking out of the covers, his skinny toes peeking out and hanging off the edge of his tiny bed.

Buck shut the door behind him and set Steve’s present and his pancake on the short dresser, kicking his shoes off and snuggling up behind his friend.

“Stevie,” he whispered, digging his finger into Steve’s ear. Steve jolted and swatted him away, sitting up quickly and blinking at him through cloudy eyes.

“Wass happnin’,” he slurred and Bucky’s loud laugh echoed through the room.

“Happy birthday, punk,” he said, clapping the blonde on the shoulder. Not too hard, though, or he’d hurt Steve’s back. “You made it to fourteen!”

“A bleedin’ miracle,” Steve grumbled, shifting around on his bed so he was sitting up, rubbing sleepily at his eyes with his knuckles. Bucky’s stomach wiggled at the sight of the blonde’s bare chest, his thin rib cage and the slight bump of his belly. He’d asked his ma once, why Steve had a belly even though his family had to skip meals all the time. Winifred had just shushed him and sent him back the next day with three frozen casseroles. Two tiny pink nipples sat on either side of Steve’s chest, so small and round and perfect. Bucky bet he could cover the whole thing with just his thumb, wondered if Steve would feel the way he did when he played with his own tits late at night.

“Hey, none of that,” he said, shaking himself out of his head. He hugged an arm around Steve’s neck before bouncing up. “C’mon, your ma’s making breakfast and I’m starved.”

“You go, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“You alright?” Bucky frowned and stepped back towards his friend. Was Steve feeling sick again? He’d _just_ gotten over his pneumonia, and Bucky’d go nuts if he had to go that long without seeing his friend again.

“I’m aces,” Steve said, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “Just gotta get dressed.”

“Nothing I ain’t seen before, Stevie.”

Steve huffed and threw the blankets back, clambering out of the creaky bed clad in just his drawers. A blush immediately darkened Bucky’s cheeks, his stomach doing that wiggling thing again at the tent in Steve’s too big skivvies. He cleared his throat and looked away, barely breathing until Steve had finished buttoning his shirt and slid his suspenders over his bony shoulders.

“C’mon, old man,” he teased, wrangling Steve by the neck and playfully shaking him. “Let’s eat.”

After breakfast, they laid around on the floor, fiddling with the old radio and cheering when the Dodger’s scored. Bucky had wanted to buy tickets, but his ma had talked him out of it. Steve couldn’t sit in the heat all day, and his allergies would act up from all the grass. Not to mention the way the stadium seats would strain the curve in his back, or how his Irish skin would burn to a crisp in the Brooklyn sun.

Winifred and George came over around supper time, laden with crockpots and picnic baskets full of pies, tarts, macaroni salad, potato salad, raw hotdogs and meat for burgers. George wiped his forehead and kissed Sarah’s cheek before handing Steve, who was still lying on the floor, two wrapped boxes.

“Happy birthday, son,” he said softly, patting Steve’s shoulders and moving to sit on the couch. Winifred and Sarah both stopped unloading food to watch Steve tear into the paper and open the first box, revealing a new ball mitt sitting in white tissue paper. Steve’s jaw dropped. This one was nicer than even Mikey from two streets over, a rich snob who liked the brag about how he got a new mitt each summer, his baseballs unscuffed, all their strings intact. Steve had laid his fist into him one day, fed up with the bragging, and Bucky’d had to pull him off by his suspenders.

“If you, uh, if you look,” George coughed, lifting the mitt up and turning it to the side. “It’s got your name on the side, so even if ya lose it, they’ll know who it belongs to. Now that’s real leather, so you gotta take care of it, ya hear? None of those fits Bucky likes to throw so he can throw his mitt in the ground.”

“I don’t throw _fits,”_ Bucky grumbled, rolling his eyes. George ignored him.

“Go on and open that second one, Stevie.”

Steve gingerly set the glove aside and dug into the second one, his eyebrows pulling together as he picked up a baseball scribbling in signatures out of the wrapping.

“You recognize any of those names, kiddo?”

He frowned and turned the ball on his fingertips, mouthing the names silently and feeling his jaw drop more open after each name.

“M- Mr. Barnes?” he croaked, setting the ball back into the box so he didn’t smudge it. “Is that- are those the Dodger’s signatures?”

“No way!” Bucky hollered as George nodded. He scrambled to take a look at the ball, holding the box and stared reverently into it. “Jesus Mary ‘n Joseph.”

“James Buchanan,” Winifred scolded, whapping Bucky on the back of the head with the closest magazine. “Watch your language.”

“Sorry, ma.”

Later, when they were stuffed with hotdogs and iced tea, Bucky and Steve disappeared to the fire escape with an entire apple pie and two forks. Bucky’s present stayed hidden behind his back as they settled onto layers of blankets, the light from the living room letting them see what they were doing. Steve pulled two glass Coke’s out of the basket holding their pie and Bucky cheered.

“Where’d you get those?” he asked, cracking the cap off both of them and handing one back to Steve.

“Mrs. Johnson lemme take ‘em home cause I helped stock her candy last week after Mass,” Steve said, looking proud. “She gave me some gummies, too, but I ate those.”

“Punk,” Bucky teased, taking a sip of his pop and sighing contently.

“You know your parents don’t haveta get me presents every year,” Steve said after a couple minutes of silence. “They help me and my ma out enough as it is.”

“They like doin’ it,” Bucky said, waving a hand at him. “They like spoiling ya’. Can’t spoil me and Becca cause we’ll turn into brats. But you’re good enough inside that they can do it.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve snorted, rolling his eyes behind his Coke glass. Bucky nudged his thigh with his foot.

“You are,” he insisted, sliding closer. “Best guy I know.”

“You must not know many guys, Buck.”

“I know enough.”

“Then how come you’re always hanging around here?”

“Cause you’re the best of them.” Bucky moved so he was sitting Indian style across from his friend with his back against the wall, gesturing for Steve to do the same but with his back against the metal railing. “How many times I gotta tell you that?”

“My hearing is shot,” Steve teased, cupping a slim hand behind his ear. “Might wanna tell me a few more times.”

“You’re a punk.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Would a jerk have gotten you a birthday present?”

“Jokes on you, cause you didn’t get me a present.”

“Since my presence apparently isn’t enough of a gift for you,” he said, making Steve roll his pretty blue eyes. “I did get you something.”

He pulled the box out from behind him and set it in Steve’s lap, already biting his lip nervously. He’d been saving his allowance and spare nickels for months for this. What if Steve didn’t like it?

Steve frowned a little and slowly opened the gift, the reds and blues of the fireworks booming from behind Bucky casting shadows on his sharp features. He pulled the set of drawing pencils and a new sketchbook out of the box and just stared at them.

“Those are the right ones, right?” Bucky asked nervously. “You said you liked ‘em when we hid in that art store from Sister Kathryn, ‘member? I hope those are the right ones.”

“They are,” Steve breathed, still staring at the items in his hands. “Buck, these musta cost you a fortune.”

“Anything for my best guy, Stevie.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what they really sounded like, and his stomach fell through the fire escape grates as Steve finally raised his eyes.

“Your best guy, Buck?” he whispered, his gaze making Bucky’s insides wiggle around. His dick started to chub up in his shorts and his face felt too hot. The pomade he’d carefully applied to his dark hair this morning was going to melt out if he kept blushing like this.

“C- course you’re my best guy, Stevie,” he stuttered. “Till the end of the line, right?”

Steve scooted closer so their knees were touching, setting the art supplies to the side and leaning in. He was close enough that he could smell Bucky’s cologne, deep and woodsy.

“Ya know what I really want for my birthday?” he asked softly.

“What’s that?”

“My first kiss,” the blonde said, so quietly Bucky almost didn’t hear him. His heart started doing double time at the words.

“You mean you’ve never been kissed?”

“Nope. You know dames don’t look at me the way they do you, Buck.”

“They should,” he argued hotly.

“Eh.” Steve shrugged one skinny shoulder. “I like dames just fine. I just- ya know, always kinda preferred fellas better…” He said the words slowly, like he was testing out the way they’d feel on his tongue, unaware of the way Bucky’s mouth was going dry.

“You have?”

“Yeah.”

“Any, uh, anybody in particular catch your eye?”

Steve’s face twisted in a mixture of a smirk and a smile, his eyes crinkling just slightly in the way Bucky had grown to love, and he set his fork aside to close the distance between them, wiggling his way effortlessly into Bucky’s space.

“I can think of someone,” he said softly, and then those sweet Irish lips were on his and Bucky couldn’t form a thought if he’d tried. There was so much at stake here- their folks could see, anybody looking up at the fire escape the right way could see, could get them in loads of trouble, maybe even arrested.

But as Steve settled his bony body into Bucky’s lap, skinny arms around his best friends neck as their tongues danced together, grinding their hips together to get just the right amount of friction, Bucky found that, honestly, he didn’t give a damn. He’d go to jail for this kid. Get kicked out of his folks place for this. For his best guy.

…….

New York, 2018

“I still can’t believe Stark actually got you a cake that fit a hundred candles.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Tony for you.”

Bucky snickered as they climbed out the buildings roof access door, both of them sighing contently as the rush of cool air breezing through their suits. Tony, as usual, had thrown an entirely unnecessarily extravagant birthday bash, decking out the tower with more decorations than the staff had known what to do with, inviting hundreds of people- still living WW2 vets, descendants of the original Howling Commandos, Peggy’s kids, their kids, the entire team plus Peter Parker and a dark haired man with a red cape who was supposedly a brain surgeon and a superhero.

“This is nice,” Steve said, shedding his suit jacket and already yanking at his tie. Bucky had ditched his jacket hours ago and hadn’t even bothered with a tie. He claimed the metal fingers didn’t have the dexterity to handle the silk, but he’d fingered Steve’s prostate with enough accuracy enough times to know that wasn’t true.

“Mhmm. Perfect spot to watch the firework show I had the city put together for ya’.”

Steve just rolled his eyes and moved to sit at the edge of the building, folding his long legs under his body and leaning into Bucky when he sat next to him.

“You still trying to convince me the fireworks are for me?”

“What else would they be for?” Bucky asked, feigning confusion. “Not like today is a national holiday or something.”

Steve once again rolled his eyes, tuning his head to kiss the soft spot under Bucky’s unshaven jaw, nuzzling closer as his best guy tucked him into his arms, both flesh and metal.

“You roll your eyes any harder and they’ll fall out.”

“Then I won’t have to look at your ugly mug every day,” Steve countered, biting into Bucky’s shoulder playfully.

“Hey, I’ll have you know it took Natalia at least ten minutes to do this little braid thing in my hair, so show some respect.”

Steve just chuckled and shook his head affectionately.

“It looks good,” he conceded, making Bucky puff his chest out proudly. “The long hair is growing on me.”

“Actually, it’s growing on me, cause, ya know, it’s my hair?”

That one got him an elbow to the ribs but it didn’t stop his cackling.

“You’re a jerk, you know that?”

“And you’re still a punk,” he said, turning Steve’s head up with two fingers under his chin. The explosions of blue, green, red, and white reflected off Steve’s pale Irish skin, his eyes sparkling with every burst of color, the lights casting sharp shadows on the planes of his face. God, Bucky had never been much of an artist, but if he could draw this, draw the way Steve just _was,_ it’d be enough to last him at least another hundred years.

“I love you, Stevie.”

Steve reached up with to touch Bucky’s face, a soft, fond smile on his lips, his vibranium wedding band shimmering in the fireworks show.

“Love you, too, Buck. Till the end of the line.”


End file.
